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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568786">Rebuild All Your Ruins</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranonic/pseuds/cyranonic'>cyranonic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Agarthan clone shenanigans, Comedy, Getting Together, Gladiator Games, I don't know what to say except that the plot is the plot of Thor ragnarok, M/M, Post-Canon, guys it's literally just Thor ragnarok, meandering sword Felix</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:33:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranonic/pseuds/cyranonic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Felix. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, standing across the arena from him. He is four years older, hair longer, a scar on his eyebrow that wasn’t there before, still sharp and graceful and perfect. His best friend. The man who had never forgiven him and yet helped him all the same. The man who had stayed when it was difficult and left when it was easy. </p><p>Dimitri feels his face break out into a smile. </p><p>“Yes!” he hears himself exclaim. “I know him! He’s a friend from home!”</p><p>---</p><p>Dimitri finds himself involuntarily recruited into a contest of champions. The last person he expects to find there is Felix.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rebuild All Your Ruins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dimitri wakes up in the back of a wagon. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand. Why does his mouth feel like it’s full of sand?</p><p>Oh, because… it is full of sand. </p><p>He wakes up in the back of a wagon just as it is cresting a sandy ridge. Blearily, he can see a hazy desert stretching out around him with his one remaining eye. He knows that this ought to brother him, but it takes him a moment to consider why. </p><p>Ah, yes, of course. It should bother him because the last thing that he can remember is his party being attacked on the road, guards clashing with mages, and him, foolishly rolling from his horse just as a warp glyph had activated on the ground below. </p><p>And definitely not being in the middle of a desert. </p><p>He opens his mouth to try to speak, but all that comes out are a few hacking coughs. At least that clears away some of the sand. There isn’t enough saliva left in his mouth to spit, but he so desperately wants to spit the sand away. He settles for weakly wiping at his tongue with one hand. That is how he discovers that someone has tied both of his hands together with a length of rope. </p><p>“You keep behaving nice and I’ll toss you a canteen,” the driver of the wagon says. Dimitri raises his head to get a glance at a man wearing a few bits of scrap armor and driving along a pair of enormous Srengese goats, which are pulling the cart. The man has a scraggly little beard, like a goat himself. </p><p>So they are probably in Sreng. That is not entirely comforting. The man, however, looks Faerghan in appearance, or possibly Adrestian. Depends on if his bits of armor are stolen or not. </p><p>Dimitri tests the bonds on his hands experimentally. It would be simple enough to snap them and overpower the driver, but then…</p><p>“If you’re planning an escape, good luck to you,” the driver says. “It’s miles away from the nearest water source unless you’re heading where we’re already heading. I advise you to take the canteen, settle in, and make for your freedom a bit later. You’re a big one, although I bet you’ve seen some better days. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to get away.” </p><p>Dimitri says nothing in response. So that is one stroke of luck. The man has not recognized that he has the King of Fódlan in the back of his wagon. </p><p>Dimitri cannot resist a faint smile. For all that Sylvain usually complains about his miserably un-royal fashion choices, they have come to his aid now. Even Ingrid, who once apologetically described him as ‘bedraggled,’ would have to admit this was advantageous. </p><p>He silently considers the man’s words for a moment. Unfortunately, the driver is probably right. He raises his head again to watch the barren countryside pass by. In his current condition, even if he did manage to steal the driver’s canteen before he escaped, he would need more luck than he has ever been allotted to make it to civilization before he expired. </p><p>But, he thinks, he is only in Sreng. As soon as his party fails to return to Fhirdiad on time, Ingrid will be out scouting for the location of the battle. Annette will find the remains of the warp glyph and put the pieces together. Sylvain will negotiate a peaceful foray into Sreng and Dedue will likely demand to lead the rescue party. If he can just keep himself alive for a few weeks, his companions will come for him. His friends will come. Because despite everything, they have always come back for him.</p><p>“Please,” Dimitri finally manages to say without choking on his dry throat. “Canteen.” </p><p>A hide canteen hits the wooden bottom of the cart beside him and he scrambles to squeeze some of it into his mouth. His hands are clumsy, shaking from exhaustion, and he nearly chokes himself at first. He feels water pouring down his chin and then finally manages to swallow a few mouthfuls.</p><p>“There now,” the driver says. “Cooperation makes everything easier. You just rest now.” </p><p>Dimitri starts to sit up as he finishes the last of the canteen. He needs to try to get information, find out at least where he is, how long he’s been unconscious, where they are heading.</p><p>Unfortunately when he raises his head, the world begins to divide, splitting into fractals and twirling into a spinning vortex. He barely has time to lower his head before his eye closes and he is asleep again.</p><p>When he wakes up, he is in a cell. Or, perhaps more accurately, he is in a sort of holding pen. With a groan, he rolls over and takes in a large room that seems to be carved out of rock on one side, the other side lined with bars. His head hurts, either from the drug or the dehydration, and it takes him a moment before he realizes that he is not alone. </p><p>“Hey there, pal,” a man’s voice says from beside him. </p><p>Dimitri pushes himself up on his elbow, rubbing his forehead as a slightly familiar face swims into his vision. There is an enormous man sitting beside him. He has long brown hair, tangled and matted a bit at the ends. His hands are wrapped in cloth strips and he has a bruise on his chin. He wears only an open vest, exposing a muscular chest and stomach. </p><p>“The name’s Balthus,” the man says companionably, offering Dimitri a wooden cup of water and a bowl of some sort of mashed pottage. “Don’t worry, no drugs in this stuff. But you’ll need it.” </p><p>“Thank you,” Dimitri manages to say. Luckily he’s still so hoarse, he doesn’t think that the man will notice his accent, just a touch too refined for these parts.</p><p>He recalls the name Balthus from his days at Garreg Mach. The professor had mentioned him a few times as a low life who hung around the monastery, often in trouble for his debts. But never malicious, Dimitri recalls, which was why the professor had never done anything about it. </p><p>Cautiously, Dimitri sips the water. </p><p>“So, how’d they get you in here?” Balthus asks once Dimitri has finished the cup. He pours him another from a waiting pitcher. “Big guy like you, I’d assume it was an ambush job. Or maybe you’re a drinker and they got you sleeping it off.” </p><p>“Ambush,” Dimitri says. He needs to keep his story vague. He is only willing to put his trust in Balthus up to the point of assuming the man isn’t trying to poison him. “They caught me on the road.” </p><p>“Stupid to travel alone in the Srengese wastes, but who am I to talk,” Balthus says genially. “I signed up for this place. Thought I’d earn some easy coin, pay off my debts. Then I sorta tried to… er, well start a bit of an uprising.” </p><p>“An uprising?” Dimitri echoes. Balthus glances around. </p><p>There are at least fifteen others in the cell with them. Mostly men, but a few women who look like they could snap even Balthus in half like a twig. All of them clearly used to rough living and with the scars to prove it. Dimitri smiles in a moment of private amusement that he must fit right in. </p><p>“I thought, well, we’re the ones people pay to see. Why shouldn’t we be running the show?” Balthus sighed. “But I didn’t print enough pamphlets and nobody showed. Now I’ve got seven years added on to my debts for my trouble.” </p><p>“The show?” Dimitri asks in confusion. </p><p>Balthus raises an eyebrow and looks troubled. </p><p>“Oh, pal, either you drank way too much of the canteen or they picked you up raw,” he says with a sympathetic shake of his head. “You’re at the Contest of Champions. Biggest fighting pit in the known world, and the most brutal.” </p><p>Balthus pushes the bowl of mashed vegetables towards him again. </p><p>“You’d better eat something, pal, they like the fresh blood to fight as soon as they can stand,” Batlhus suggests. “That way they can get a betting pool going and test your mettle.”</p><p>“They want me to fight?” Dimitri asks, accepting the bowl and eating without enthusiasm. There are worse options, Dimitri knows. He could have been captured by the mages who had tried to kill him on the road. He could have been held for ransom at the Srengese court. Fighting, at least, is something that Dimitri knows he can do. </p><p>“Yep,” Balthus says glumly, “but don’t feel too bad about your first match. They’ll put you up against the champ, just to see if you can hold your own for a few minutes. I’ve got some bourbon in a little hidey hole of my own I can lend you for the pain afterwards.” </p><p>“And what if I win?” Dimitri asks. Balthus snorts. </p><p>“Win against the champ?” he shrugs. “They’ll probably give you a private room and a nickname. The one-eyed wonder or the half-blind heretic or something like that.” </p><p>Dimitri nods. A private room would be a start. Balthus isn’t the worst companion he could have asked for, but he does not share the man’s optimism in starting an uprising. The fighters in this cell would probably sell him out for a liter of wine or an extra blanket if he gave them the chance. Getting a reputation, at the very least, will give his friends a clue when they search for him. </p><p>“You’re actually serious,” Balthus notes as Dimitri finishes the bowl. “You think you can win.” </p><p>“I am, as you said, fairly large,” Dimitri shrugs. </p><p>“And I’m the King of Grappling!” Balthus says, as though that name will ring a bell, “but I’ve barely scored a hit on the champ. He’s a demon with a blade, that one. Earned his freedom years ago, but he keeps fighting. They say he loves nothing more in the world than the arena.” </p><p>Dimitri says nothing in response, but the corner of his mouth twitches. King of Grappling, meet King of Fódlan. Dimitri is fairly certain that his training has prepared him to face even the most competent gladiator this miserable little outpost can supply. </p><p>In a few hours, they come to collect him from the cell. Dimitri considers grabbing for one of the guards' swords right then and fighting his way out. But, he reminds himself, he still has no idea what the layout of this place might be, how many guards he might have to face, and which direction he should even go once he is free. </p><p>Still, he almost reconsiders when one of the guards produces a pair of shears. </p><p>“I don’t have lice,” he says firmly. “I swear it.” </p><p>“If you’re lying, those fine fellows back in your cell won’t be happy,” the guard warns him with a mostly toothless smile, snapping the shears open and shut one more time. </p><p>“I’m not,” Dimitri says firmly. Dedue often reminds him that he needs a haircut, but he does not want it to be at the hands of the frankly deranged looking man holding shears big enough to use on a sheep. </p><p>“Sword or fists?” the other guard asks. Dimitri stares at a few poorly maintained weapons on the rack in front of him. The sword is so battered, he will probably snap the hilt if he so much as touches it. He hasn’t trained much in grappling, but it might be easier than losing his weapon halfway through a fight. </p><p>“Do you have any long sticks?” Dimitri finally asks. </p><p>Which is how he ends up in a dark room, bars in front of him slowly rising as an enormous sounding crowd roars from outside, holding a broom. </p><p>Dimitri feels his shoulders sag as he steps out into the arena. It is an enormous affair. Half of it sits against a rocky cliff while the other half of the circle is imposingly high stone. The seats are packed with people. Some look like locals, while others are clearly outlaws from Fódlan, Almyra, even a few mages in deep indigo robes who must be from Morfis. This is no small operation that he can easily fight his way out of. </p><p>And armed with only a broom, he doesn’t particularly like his odds against the sword anymore either. </p><p>Shouldering the broom, he walks to the middle of the arena and he hears voices announcing him in several languages. </p><p>“The one-eyed brute of the wastes, the monster of the far north, the cyclops of Faerghus!” </p><p>Dimitri grimaces a bit at that one. At least he is still so filthy that no one will make too much of the fact that the Savior King is also known to have one eye. </p><p>“Fighting tonight against our champion, the beast with a blade, the meandering sword, the saber of fortune!” </p><p>Across the arena, another gate slides open and a man steps out. He is smaller than Dimitri, but he moves with deadly confidence. The stadium hushes in awe as they see him. </p><p>Dimitri feels his jaw fall open. It is him. There is no mistaking it. </p><p>It has been four years since the end of the war, since he renounced his title and left his lands to his uncle and left. While he had fought by Dimitri’s side until the end of the war, he had never made his disgust much of a secret. </p><p>It is Felix. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, standing across the arena from him. He is four years older, hair longer, a scar on his eyebrow that wasn’t there before, still sharp and graceful and perfect. His best friend. The man who had never forgiven him and yet helped him all the same. The man who had stayed when it was difficult and left when it was easy. </p><p>Dimitri feels his face break out into a smile. </p><p>“Yes!” he hears himself exclaim. “I know him! He’s a friend from home!”</p><p>Felix stares at him with something like horror in his eyes.</p><p>“Where have you been?” Dimitri laughs. “No one has heard from you in years... Annette thought you were dead! So much has happened since I last saw you--” </p><p>Dimitri does not have the chance to finish his sentence before he must drop to the ground to avoid Felix’s blade swinging straight for his head. </p><p>“Felix?” Dimitri manages to yelp. “It’s me, it’s--” </p><p>“I’m not Felix,” Felix says. The crowd is roaring as Dimitri scrambles backwards. His blade flashes again and Dimitri only barely manages to dive out of the way. </p><p>“Why are you--” Dimitri ducks under another swing. “I don’t want to hurt you, Felix, please!” </p><p>Felix merely growls and strikes Dimitri with his elbow hard enough that he feels his lip split. </p><p>Instinctively, Dimitri responds. His body responds. His mind is screaming at him to stop and for a moment, he sees Felix’s eyes widen as he hears the faint hum of Dimitri’s Crest activating. And then the broom connects with Felix’s stomach and he goes sprawling into the dirt.</p><p>The crowd falls silent with a disappointed groan. Dimitri stands frozen. The arena is horribly quiet, but for Felix’s barely audible gasp as he tries to move. </p><p>Then Felix rolls to his side, starts to get back to his feet, and wretches into the sand. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>“Where is the king?” Ingrid asks as she strides into Sylvain’s study. She watches his face move from delight to despair as he recognizes her and then looks down to see the muddy boot prints she’s left on the carpet.</p><p>“Ingrid,” he says tightly. “Back from Galatea, I see. How’s the farming?” </p><p>“Better than I had expected,” Ingrid admits, stretching and staying put to avoid doing more damage to Sylvain’s fastidiously kept rooms. Her seat is sore from a day in the saddle and she has leaves stuck in her armor from a particularly adventurous take-off through the trees. </p><p>“Dimitri is on the terrace, I think,” Sylvain says, standing and gingerly embracing her, angling his body carefully to avoid letting her tunic touch his coat. “He’s had the opera at the palace all week.” </p><p>“I heard there was trouble on the road,” Ingrid says, already walking towards the terrace. Sylvain follows her. “Adrestians? Leicester independence?” </p><p>“Mages,” Sylvain frowns. “All masked. No insignia. Probably more of our old friends from our academy days.” </p><p>“But Dimitri wasn’t injured?” Ingrid asks anxiously. Typical of Dimitri to choose the week when she had urgent matters to attend to in Galatea to take a trip to Garreg Mach with only his private guard. </p><p>“Fell off his horse, a few bruises I think, but nothing serious,” Sylvain shrugs. “But I think… well, you’ll see for yourself.” </p><p>“You think what?” Ingrid asks, her eyes narrowing. She knows Sylvain too well to assume that his perception might be superfluous. </p><p>“He’s just been a bit… odd,” Sylvain says and then quickly follows up when he sees concern in Ingrid’s expression. “Not bad. He’s just been, uh, more <em>relaxed</em> than usual. I think maybe this latest attempt on his life might have reminded him that he needs to take better care of himself?” </p><p>“Hence, opera?” Ingrid clarifies. Sylvain affirms with a jerk of his head. </p><p>“Maybe he’s becoming a patron of the arts,” Sylvain shrugs. “The script, though… who knows what he was thinking.” </p><p>A pair of guards part before them as they reach the terrace. It is a rare sunny day in Fhirdiad, although just on the edge of being too cold for an outdoor performance. Ingrid spots Dimitri wearing a thick fur robe, reclining on a couch. A few of his attendants are seated around him, as well as some courtiers that Ingrid has barely ever seen in the king’s company before. </p><p>And then Ingrid hears the duet. </p><p>An opera singer is kneeling on a makeshift stage. He is a broad man with a wide belly forced into a suit of blackened steel armor. A royal blue cloak spills over one shoulder, mingling with a waist length blonde wig that brings out the red spots on his cheeks as he blasts forth the baritone part. In his arms is a woman in a white wig and a red gown singing in piercing soprano. </p><p>“Please, Edelgard, don’t go. Take my dagger and we can be as siblings once again,” the man sings. </p><p>“It is too late. My path… has already been chosen for me,” the actress slumps down dramatically, clutching her side. “But please, when I am gone… remember my deeds.” </p><p>“We will, Edelgard. We will remember how you tried to destroy the corruption of Seiros,” the man croons. “And how your allies, those brilliant mages, attempted to bring the light of knowledge back to Fódlan once again.” </p><p>“I’m sorry that I worked with the Death Knight,” the fake-Edelgard whimpers. </p><p>“He was an incredible fighter. A very talented man,” the fake-Dimitri responds. </p><p>“I’m sorry that we kidnapped Flayn,” the fake-Edelgard adds. </p><p>“She was necessary for the advancement of arcane knowledge,” the fake-Dimitri tearfully reassures her. “And she wasn’t even badly hurt.” </p><p>“I’m sorry that Cornelia tried to execute you,” the fake-Edelgard sings and then gasps in feigned agony. </p><p>“Honestly, that was my fault,” the fake-Dimitri confesses. “I was being so difficult. Please, El, don’t go.” </p><p>“Goodbye Dimitri,” the fake-Edelgard sings in a piercing crescendo. She holds aloft a dagger with surprising vigor. “Cut a path to the future you wish for. Hopefully one that includes… incredible… mages…” </p><p>Ingrid sees Dimitri mouthing along the final lines and then he places a hand to his heart. As the actress slumps down into her death throes, the rest of the ensemble erupts into a choral ode. Dimitri pops a grape into his mouth and then beckons a servant over to refill a goblet in his hand. </p><p>Ingrid turns to Sylvain in awe. </p><p>“You weren’t kidding,” she whispers. </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“He’s definitely relaxed.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“What was all that about Flayn?” </p><p>“Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a look of barely veiled concern. “I know.”</p><p>“Is Dedue here?” Ingrid asks. Sylvain’s shoulders slump. </p><p>“Dimitri sent him on a mission,” he admits. “Something to do with Duscur. I wasn’t consulted.” </p><p>“Alright,” Ingrid squares her shoulders and looks at the now applauding nobles surrounding Dimitri. “Then I guess we talk to him and try to… understand this.” </p><p>“I feel very unqualified for this job,” Sylvain says with a worried smile. “This isn’t like… one of his episodes, right? This doesn’t feel like one of his episodes.” </p><p>“He’s definitely working through… something,” Ingrid decides. </p><p>As the opera singers take their bows, Ingrid threads her way through the assembled nobles and bows to Dimitri, who is still half-reclined on his couch. He looks the same as ever, although perhaps less tired than usual. He doesn’t have that dark shadow under his eye and there is actual color in his cheeks. That ought to be a good sign. Why doesn’t it feel like a good sign? </p><p>“Your Majesty,” Ingrid greets him and then glances towards the stage. “What an interesting performance.” </p><p>“Ah, Ingrid!” Dimitri exclaims. He looks her up and down with an expression of skepticism. “Why do you have leaves all over you?” </p><p>“I only just returned,” Ingrid replies indignantly. “Sylvain informed me that you had experienced some incident on the road back from Garreg Mach. I wanted to reassure myself that you were alright.” </p><p>“Oh, perfectly fine!” Dimitri laughs, waving an easy hand in the air. “Just enjoying a bit of theatre now, you see. Thought I’d take a bit of a break after all of the fuss.”</p><p>“Yes,” Ingrid nods, glancing at Sylvain. “We noticed.” </p><p>“That aria, pretty good, right?” Dimitri closes his eye in what Ingrid belatedly realizes was an attempt at a conspiratorial wink. “They call it <em> The Tragedy of the Flame Emperor </em>. The people have demanded that I present a more balanced perspective of the events of the war. Something fair and… less biased than other recent works.” </p><p>“Look, Dimitri, I think it’s great that you’re enjoying some art and taking some time for yourself finally,” Sylvain adds and then his smile pulls a bit tight. “But, uh, what about that super secret mission that you sent Dedue on? Is that something we need to handle?” </p><p>“What? Secret mission? What? No!” Dimitri laughs very loudly and then takes a long sip from his goblet of wine. “Don’t worry yourselves. Have you tried this wine yet? It’s delicious! Very full-bodied, notes of cherry I think.” </p><p>Ingrid shoots Sylvain a very sharp look at that. </p><p>“How would you know?” Sylvain asks. “Dimitri, you haven’t tasted a thing in years.” </p><p>“Oh shit,” Dimitri mutters into his cup. It’s barely audible, but Ingrid definitely catches it. Her eyes narrow. </p><p>“Dimitri, did something happen on the road?” she asks. Something you aren’t telling us?” </p><p>Dimitri stares down into his goblet for a moment. And then he stands, wrapping the fur more tightly around him. </p><p>“Nothing at all,” he says with an easy smile. There is something in his expression Ingrid has never seen before in Dimitri. A sort of slyness in the way his grin begins to falter. “But if you insist, I suppose I can stop attempting to enjoy myself and get back to work. You’re probably right, of course. What right does a monster like me have to enjoy an afternoon of pleasure? Wine? A tasteless vice. Music? A distraction from my penance!” </p><p>The cup falls to the ground, staining the stones red. Dimitri steps over it as his shoulders hunch and he strides back towards the palace.</p><p>Sylvain and Ingrid stare at one another for a long moment. Then Sylvain reaches out and brushes one of the leaves caught under Ingrid’s pauldron away. His eyes soften slightly. </p><p>“Well,” he says with a shrug. “I guess everything is fine then.” </p><p>“Yes,” Ingrid says without enthusiasm. She watches the wine seeping into the cracks in the tile, spreading out into a network of tiny red lines. “The king is fine.” </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>They do give him a special cell. The Champion Suite, actually. It isn’t exactly the finest room Dimitri has ever stayed in, but for a room with bars on the windows, it isn’t the worst either. </p><p>He replays the fight over and over again in his head. It had been Felix. Even if he’d denied it, there was no mistaking him. No one had heard from Felix since the war and now here he was, fighting in a Srengese gladiator prison. </p><p>And Dimitri just clobbered him in the stomach and ruined a years long victory streak. He probably isn't happy about that. Felix is seldom happy with him. </p><p>Dimitri stops his pacing when he hears the key turning again in his heavy barred down and, a moment later, a guard lets Felix into his room. </p><p>“Felix,” Dimitri says breathlessly as he turns around. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to--” </p><p>“Shut up,” Felix snarls in response. He stalks over to the wardrobe, rips it open and kneels down to begin stuffing possessions into a canvas bag. </p><p>Ah, Dimitri realizes with a bit of shame. They have given him Felix’s room. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Dimitri finally says when it is clear that Felix does not intend to start a conversation. </p><p>“What for?” Felix shoots back. “It was a fair fight. You won.” </p><p>“I didn’t want to,” Dimitri adds miserably. “I mean, I didn’t mean to be here. Listen, please, I know there is little affection remaining between us, but I need your help!” </p><p>“How in the eternal flames could I help you right now?” Felix asks bitterly, slamming the wardrobe shut and then going to snatch up a few books from the table. </p><p>“I’m… Felix, I’m not here by my own will,” Dimitri whispers incredulously, sparing a glance to the bored looking guard still lingering at the door. “Even if you hate me, you at least conceded to fight beside me during the war. I am only asking that you help get me out of here!” </p><p>“Why should I?” Felix replies shortly. “Your vassal will be here soon enough, I imagine. If I get caught helping you, I lose everything I’ve built here. Just be patient. They won’t hurt a valuable fighter.” </p><p>Dimitri stares at Felix in stunned frustration. </p><p>“What has happened to you?” He finally asks, voice low. “You used to be different. Even if you find me repulsive, you did your duty. Honing your skill is one thing, but working for people like this…?” </p><p>Felix finally looks at him. His expression is murderous. </p><p>“I don’t work for anyone but myself,” he says in a poisonous whisper, “and I have no <em> duty </em> . I have no honor. I am not a chivalrous knight and I am not bound to serve the king of a country we aren’t even <em> in </em>.” </p><p>Dimitri takes a sharp breath, but falls silent. Felix makes a disgusted sound in his throat and turns to leave. </p><p>“I was worried about you,” Dimitri murmurs to his retreating back. Felix does not stop walking to the door. </p><p>“Enjoy the room,” he says harshly before the guard slams the door behind him. </p><p>And with that, Dimitri is alone again. He wants to lie down on the palette and put his head in his hands for several hours. </p><p>Instead, he goes to the window and begins testing the strength of the bars. As long as no one is listening at the door, he should be able to break through. That leaves the problem of how exactly he can escape this place with no knowledge of where in Sreng he even is. But at least the first step will be easy. </p><p>Dimitri grabs one bar and wrenches it back. The metal bends in his grip and he strains his arm. It cracks free from the stonework in a sudden burst and a shower of pebbles. He gets to work on the next bar. </p><p>Before he can wrench it free, however, the door slams open again. Dimitri leaps back from the window, hastily tossing the bent iron rod under the bed and wincing at the clatter it makes. </p><p>But it is not the guard. It is Felix. He is fuming. For a moment, Dimitri is worried that he might have returned for a rematch to their fight. </p><p>“The King arrived back safely in Fhirdiad,” Felix snarls, as if he is accusing Dimitri of something. </p><p>“What?” Dimitri asks dully. </p><p>“The King,” Felix enunciates viciously, “arrived back in Fhirdiad. Last week. Merchant convoy just arrived and confirmed it.” </p><p>“But…” Dimitri says numbly, “I didn’t. I’m… Felix, you have to believe me, I’m not lying, I’m Dimitri!” </p><p>“I know,” Felix rolls his eyes. “Obviously. But you know what this <em>means</em>, you absolute idiot?” </p><p>“I don’t think I do,” Dimitri replies. “Perhaps it has to do with those mages, Solon and his ilk…” </p><p>“It means no one is looking for you,” Felix snarls, as though Dimitri is somehow responsible for any of this. “Which means <em> I </em> have to get you out of here. By myself. With an arena full of guards and spectators and nothing but wasteland from here till the Gautier border!” </p><p>Dimitri cannot form any articulate words in response to that. He just stares at Felix, whose face is still tight with anger. His hair has grown long and Dimitri cannot help but notice how he pulls it back carelessly now, letting several strands escape down the side of his face. </p><p>“We cannot simply walk out?” Dimitri asks hesitantly after a moment. “You know I would repay anything you might use to purchase my freedom here…” </p><p>“I don't…” Felix crosses his arms and grits his teeth. “I am not technically allowed to leave either.” </p><p>“What?” Dimitri blinks rapidly, unable to process what Felix has just said. </p><p>“The contracts are very restrictive,” Felix adds defensively. “And I didn’t anticipate having to leave with anyone else when the time came to move on.” </p><p>“You sold yourself to a gladiator ring?” Dimitri gapes at him in disbelief. </p><p>“I didn’t sell anything,” Felix hisses back. “I am an independent contractor. I just… I don’t get paid in gold.” </p><p>“Felix,” Dimitri cannot help but groan. He sits down on the side of the bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. The plan is getting more and more complicated. </p><p>Not the least bit because he is somehow planning his escape with the man he has been missing every day since he left. </p><p>“Alright,” Dimitri finally says, taking a deep breath and reevaluating. “I have another idea. It isn't a good one, but... How easily do you think you could print up some pamphlets?” </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>“Ingrid,” Sylvain hisses. </p><p>Ingrid ignores him. </p><p>“Ingrid,” Sylvain repeats insistently.</p><p>“What?” Ingrid finally whispers back irritably. </p><p>“This is seriously, <em> seriously </em> not the time for a visit to the palace sauna,” Sylvain speaks rapidly, voice hushed. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, as though worried that they are being followed. “Not that I don't appreciate keeping things clean, but it’s the middle of the night and, as I have been trying to inform you, I think something is actually wrong with Dimitri.”</p><p>“What have you noticed?” Ingrid asks, continuing down the corridor without pause. </p><p>“He’s been… well, there’s the statue for one thing,” Sylvain suggests. “A tribute to Pan sounded nice at first, but have you seen the designs? A giant mage in the center of the city? And his face is… ugh. It just gives me a bad feeling.” </p><p>“Anything else?” Ingrid asks calmly. </p><p>“Well, there’s also the renovations to the palace,” Sylvain continues anxiously. “All of these workers everywhere, but I’ve never laid eyes on any of them before. I caught Dimitri talking to one of them the other day and I swear I heard him make some sort of lewd innuendo about boars being known for their 'large tusks.'” </p><p>“Ugh,” Ingrid wrinkles her nose at that. </p><p>“More than ‘ugh,’ Ingrid!” Sylvian says urgently. “I’ve seen Dimitri flirting before. It’s unbearable, but in a completely different way. It’s like if you went to a funeral and one of the priests read you mathematical equations for five hours while crying and then suddenly proposed marriage.” </p><p>“How colorful,” Ingrid observes, “now hush.” </p><p>She claps a hand to Sylvain’s mouth as they finally reach the sauna. Even through the door, she can feel that it is warm. Steam curls out and into the hallway where she stands and waits. </p><p>Sylvian raises his eyebrows. Ingrid releases her hand from his mouth.</p><p>“... all I’m saying is that it’s tuneless, okay? It’s absolutely tuneless,” Dimitri’s voice echoes faintly from within. “There’s just no beat, you know? No bass. The Faerghans have no sense of rhythm.” </p><p>“Well, you can hold out a little longer,” another voice replies, this one harsher and much less genial. “You’re already getting sloppy. Gautier is watching you.” </p><p>“Relax, Bias,” Dimitri laughs and Ingrid hears the sound of splashing as he seems to shift in the bath. “I’ll just send him off on another ‘urgent mission.’ We’ve only gotta keep this up until the archbishop comes, right?” </p><p>“The glyphs are prepared. The charges should go off as planned,” the other man, Bias, replies, “but there is still much risk. We lost him, as you recall. Your men bungled the swap and, any day now, he might turn up.” </p><p>“Or we might have sent him to the middle of the ocean,” Dimitri suggests. “Look, if he was coming back to Fhirdiad, we would have heard something by now. Just relax, enjoy the break, and we’ll be back underground before you can say ‘Shambhala.’” </p><p>Ingrid glances at Sylvain. His eyes are wide. Slowly, Ingrid unsheathes her sword. Sylvain nods. </p><p>Whatever that thing is in the sauna, she is certain now that it is not Dimitri. And what is worse, that Dimitri is still out there and likely in terrible danger. </p><p>Sylvian silently counts to three and then he rams the door open with his shoulder. </p><p>The interior of the sauna is a blur of steam. Dimitri is sprawled in a large tub while beside him sits a very pale man who looks suspiciously like one of the new architects Dimitri has hired to redecorate the palace. </p><p>“Oh by the blood of Thinis,” Bias exclaims and then clocks Dimitri a slap to the back of his head. “Look what you’ve done, Periander, you fool!” </p><p>“Guards!” Dimitri, or possibly Periander, shouts at once. “Guards, I have two traitorous nobles trying to murder me in my bath!” </p><p>“What are you?” Ingrid demands, pointing the blade to the false Dimitri’s throat. </p><p>“Down!” Sylvain suddenly shouts. He tackles her to the wet boards of the floor before a bolt of crackling violet energy can connect with her head. Ingrid looks up and realizes that there are more people in the sauna than she has previously realized. </p><p>It is full, in fact, of mages. Silently waiting mages in the mist. Not again. </p><p>“Time to run!” Sylvian shouts, dragging her to her feet and towards the door. Ingrid considers flinging her sword at the fake Dimitri, who is cowering down in the tub for cover. But it is too late. The guards will indeed be coming and she has just very clearly attempted to attack someone who everyone believes to be the king. </p><p>“Stables,” Sylvian pants, dragging her by the hand out into the hall and skidding around the corner. “We make for the woods. Then we… I don’t know. Then we make a good plan.” </p><p>Ingrid follows.</p><p>They make it to the main road before she realizes that a battalion of Blaiddyd knights are already following them. </p><p>“You have that good plan yet?” she yells to Sylvian over the thunder of their horses’ hooves. </p><p>“I thought you were on that,” Sylvain shouts back. </p><p>“The treeline, then,” Ingrid suggests wildly. “Maybe we can lose them in the dark?” </p><p>As they veer their horses off and into the forest, Ingrid has a few seconds of relief before she hears shouting behind them. They haven't lost them in the woods. </p><p>Ingrird’s horse rears back at a fallen log, nearly pitching her off. Sylvain’s makes the jump, but she loses sight of him in the darkness. It is too densely covered back here and they can't move well. She sees a glimpse of Blaiddyd blue behind her through the brush. </p><p>And then suddenly she hears a scream. The clash of metal against armor. </p><p>A knight on horseback breaks out through a gap in the foliage, heading straight for her. Ingrid backs her horse up into the thicket, unable to retreat farther. </p><p>From out of a nearby tree, a rope shoots out and loops around the knight, yanking him from the saddle and sending him flying with a yelp. His horse crashes off into the woods, leaving the knight dangling from a branch, caught in a snare. </p><p>From the tree, a large figure drops down in a single fluid motion onto the forest floor. He reaches up and secures the dangling knight before striking him a quick and efficient blow to the side of the head. Even in the dim twilight, Ingrid recognizes the shape. </p><p>“Dedue?” she asks. “I thought you were on an urgent mission?” </p><p>“That was false, obviously,” Dedue says. He whistles once and more figures begin to emerge from the trees. Plenty of others. “Dimitri has been replaced by an impostor.” </p><p>“We know,” Ingrid says breathlessly. “How did you--?” </p><p>“I knew,” Dedue fills in immediately. “I began organizing an armed resistance ever since he returned and requested a softer pillow.” </p><p>“Oh,” Ingrid says with sudden humility. </p><p>“Is that sad?” Sylvain asks, finally making his way out of the thicket and brushing leaves and twigs out of his hair. “That’s probably sad. When we find Dimitri, someone needs to remind him that he’s a very sad man.” </p><p>“When we find him,” Ingrid says worriedly and Dedue nods with the same anxious look in his eyes.  </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>They let him out for exercise in the morning, sending him out to a dusty training yard with some of the other gladiators. Most give him a wide berth. Apparently word of his performance the previous evening has spread. </p><p>“Hey pal!” Balthus greets him immediately, turning from beating the stuffing out of a training dummy and waving. “This is a surprise. You weren’t kidding about your chances, huh?” </p><p>“I wasn’t,” Dimitri confirms. “Balthus, I need to speak with you in a moment, but first--”</p><p>He trails off as he spots Felix enter as well. He looks dour. His clothes are sloppy, his shirt untied and nearly hanging off of one muscular shoulder. Emboldened, one of the other gladiators attempts to trip him as he walks past. In a flash, Felix has seized the man by the hand and dislocated one of his fingers with a sickening pop and a scream. </p><p>“I’ll give you a moment, then,” Balthus says, hastily retreating when he sees that Felix is heading straight for them.</p><p>Felix picks up a pair of wooden swords and wordlessly tosses one to Dimitri. It feels so eerily similar to their time at the Officers Academy, apart from Felix’s tattered clothes and Dimitri’s missing eye. There is something almost natural about it, despite the long intervening years.</p><p>“I have a plan,” Felix grits out in a low voice as their blades clash. “We’re leaving tonight.” </p><p>“How are we going to cross the desert?” Dimitri asks quietly, parrying the blow and then striking out with a few quick jabs. </p><p>“Merchant caravan,” Felix mutters under his breath, easily blocking Dimitri’s strikes without much effort. “I know the owner. There’s a big festival in the outpost tonight for Saint Cethleann day. Once we break out, we’ll have cover to get through town and then out to the road.” </p><p>“And the guards at the arena?” Dimitri asks, forcing back another assault from Felix with a grunt. For a training fight, he is certainly putting an undue amount of effort into winning. </p><p>“I thought you were handing that,” Felix says, raising his scarred eyebrow at the other gladiators around them. </p><p>“They don’t like you much here,” Dimitri observes, noting the way that everyone around them applauded when he sidestepped another swipe at his knees. </p><p>“No one likes losing,” Felix shrugs. </p><p>“So then why did you stay?” Dimitri asks. “You make no money, you have no friends, and you have no loyalties to this place. Why are you here?” </p><p>“To get stronger,” Felix replies dully. </p><p>“For what purpose?” Dimitri says, staggering back a few paces as Felix unexpectedly knocks him with a heavy hit. </p><p>“To get stronger,” Felix repeats, more harshly this time. “Where else am I supposed to go to fight when there’s no more war?” </p><p>“You could go home,” Dimitri suggests. </p><p>Felix strikes him across the knuckles and he drops the training sword with a hiss of pain. He feels the tip of Felix’s wooden sword against his neck. </p><p>“Yield,” Felix says by way of response. </p><p>The rest of the training yard groans in disappointment. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>That evening, as Dimitri squeezes himself through the narrow window, recently unbarred, he finds Felix waiting for him on the path below. Dimitri drops down into the sandy dirt, and Felix flings a dark piece of fabric at him. </p><p>“What is this?” Dimitri asks. </p><p>“Disguise,” Felix replies shortly. </p><p>Dutifully, Dimitri drapes the fabric over his head. He can’t imagine this would fool anyone, but he’ll give it a shot. </p><p>“There are guards everywhere,” Felix mutters. “We won’t make it over the main wall like this.” </p><p>“That’s why we’re making a stop at the holding cells first,” Dimitri responds. </p><p>They sneek down the paths, ducking behind a corner at one point when one guard comes whistling past. Dimitri remembers little of the layout, but Felix easily makes his way through the winding halls and down to the stairs. </p><p>“How are we taking the guards?” Felix asks as they paused by the stairwell. “If they raise the alarm, there will be trouble.” </p><p>“Get help?” Dimitri suggests. </p><p>Felix adamantly shakes his head. </p><p>“That was an idiotic gambit, Byleth was mad to ever suggest it, I’m not--” he protests. </p><p>“Get help!” Dimitri cries, scooping Felix into his arms and rushing down the stairs. “My friend, he’s injured!” </p><p>One of the guards turns in surprise as Dimitri flings Felix into him. Felix immediately transforms into some kind of whirling vortex of knives in the air, taking down three of the guards in seconds while Dimitri strikes the fourth man a blow to the head. </p><p>He plucks the keys from the unconscious man’s belt and then gets to work unlocking the cells. </p><p>“Fellow fighters,” Dimitri announces, throwing open the barred doors. “The time has come to rise up against your captors and reclaim your freedom!” </p><p>“Yeah!” Balthus cheers supportively, getting to his feet. </p><p>None of the other gladiators move an inch. A man with a hook for a hand yawns and delicately rubs his nose. </p><p>“You… don’t want to escape?” Dimitri asks, baffled. </p><p>One woman shrugs and continues to pick her teeth with a piece of bone. </p><p>“Saints above,” Felix rolls his eyes. “This is the king of Fódlan, you morons, he’ll pay you a fortune if you help get him out of here!” </p><p>“All hail the revolution!” the hook handed man shouts. A cheer rises up from the rest of the gladiators and Balthus whoops. </p><p>Dimitri shoots Felix a doubtful look as gladiators begin to flood out into the halls. </p><p>“You can afford it,” Felix says callously. “Come on.” </p><p>They follow in the wake of the rushing gladiators. Most of the guards look like mercenaries themselves, many of them poorly armed and definitely not trained to fight off an assault like this. Dimitri notes that Balthus’ affinity for grappling seems to make his lack of a weapon only a minor inconvenience. </p><p>Felix grabs him by the arm when they reach the doors of the complex and drags him out of the crowd and towards the walls where a rope was already waiting for them to climb out. </p><p>“We’re leaving them?” Dimitri asks doubtfully. He tries very hard not to think about the fact that Felix’s hand is touching his bare arm. He feels thick calluses and roughly filed nails and Felix’s strong, narrow fingers. </p><p>“They’ll be fine,” Felix says, already starting up the rope. “Free arena if they win.”</p><p>“Are you sure then that…” Dimitri pauses, not wanting to say it, “that you don't want to remain here as well? I can make it to this merchant caravan by myself, I think--” </p><p>“No,” Felix says shortly, reaching the top of the wall and offering Dimitri a hand to pull him up. </p><p>“The last thing that I wanted was to ruin your life here,” Dimitri says painfully. <em> Again </em> , he thinks, to ruin Felix’s life <em> again </em>. “If this is where you are happy, Felix, Goddess knows that’s all that I want for you.” </p><p>“Come on!” Felix growls impatiently. Dimitri grabs the rope and Felix hauls it up. He shakes his head furiously as Dimitri joins him at the top of the wall. “And stop asking stupid questions.” </p><p>Dimitri obeys, feeling more confused than ever. </p><p>When Felix left after the war, it was clear that he intended to do so for good. He even waited long enough to officially abdicate his claim to Fraldarius territory in favor of his uncle. And then when the ink was dry, he’d walked off with nothing but a satchel on his back and a sword at his belt and vanished. Annette had tried to find him for a while, tracking down reports of a mercenary who often forgot to collect his payments after a job, but there had never been any confirmation.</p><p>So why is he insisting on bringing Dimitri all the way back to Fhirdiad himself? </p><p>Once they were outside of the walls, Dimitri finally sees the outpost beyond the arena. It is a robust town, nearly the size of a city apart from the fact that it appears to be primarily semi-permanent hide tents and houses built into the ruins of some earlier inhabitants. The streets are, as promised, full of people out celebrating. Some are clearly locals, while others range from nations across the continent and beyond. Dimitri smells campfires and spilled drinks and frying dough. </p><p>“Over there!” a voice shouts, “the meandering sword! He’s there!” </p><p>Felix curses and tugs Dimitri into the crowd. Dimitri pulls his disguise tighter around his head, for all the good that it has done them. </p><p>“Hey!” a child yells, pointing at Felix again. “Sword guy!”  </p><p>“Perhaps you neglected to plan for the fact that you are famous?” Dimitri whispers as Felix ducked into another alley. </p><p>“It’s fine,” Felix says frantically, “we just have to get out of sight…” </p><p>Dimitri turns as Felix trails off. They are about to step out into the main thoroughfare. Dimitri can hear guards behind them, but in front of them... </p><p>Well, there is a dragon. A massive paper dragon, being paraded down the street. And everything is green. Hundreds of people have covered their hair in green powder. The Saint Cethleann day celebration, Dimitri realizes. </p><p>“Just go with this,” Dimitri says desperately, and he dives out into the crowd and shoves his way under the dragon. Beneath he finds a few people carrying the thing, most of them very drunk. </p><p>“To Saint Cethleann!” Dimitri shouts enthusiastically. The people carrying the dragon stare at him for a moment. Felix resentfully pops his head under as well. </p><p>“Saint Cethleann,” Felix mutters unconvincingly. “May she bring you… bounty… and… fish.” </p><p>There is a pause. Then the people carrying the dragon burst into cheers. </p><p>Dimitri can not help but laugh as they carry the dragon’s body down the street. It is all so surreal. Only a week ago he had been at court, worn down by ambassador visits and trade summits and the constant, nagging suspicion that he was not doing enough. And now he is under a giant paper dragon with Felix. </p><p>Out of the corner of his good eye, he catches a glimpse of Felix’s face as well. He looks strangely flushed, or perhaps that is only the dim light beneath the dragon. One of his hands is pressed over his lips. </p><p>By the time that they reach the outskirts of the settlement, Dimitri’s laughter has quieted down. Subtly, they duck out from beneath the dragon, allowing it to wind away and back up to the center of town. There are no walls to the outpost, and Dimitri can see a few wagons already loading up and preparing to depart. </p><p>“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice exclaims. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the both of you!” </p><p>Dimitri squints, only able to see by the moonlight and the faint flames of the city bonfires behind him. There is a woman leaning on one of the wagons. Her hair is cascading over her shoulder, drawn up into a high ponytail. </p><p>“Anna?” he recognizes her suddenly. </p><p>“The one and only! You’ve got a good eye,” she grins and then turns to Felix. “You have my payment?” </p><p>“I can handle any payment,” Dimitri quickly says. “Once we have returned to Faerghus, I should be able to generously reward you for your help.” </p><p>“Sorry, Your Majesty, but a wise merchant requires something in the way of collateral for a job like this,” Anna says. </p><p>Felix grunts and pulls a sword from its sheath. Dimitri recognizes it at once. The Zoltan. </p><p>“Felix, no!” he exclaims. </p><p>Felix tosses the blade to Anna, who catches it eagerly. </p><p>“You're sure it’s genuine?” she asks. </p><p>“Of course,” Felix grunts, sounding offended. “Now let’s move.” </p><p>“Felix, you cannot trade away a Zoltan for my sake,” Dimitri laments. “Surely there is something else?”</p><p>“Nope!” Anna says cheerfully. “Pleasure doing business with you.” </p><p>Felix jerks his head in the direction of the wagon. Dimitri sighs deeply and climbs into the covered part of one of the carts. Felix follows and, for a moment, they sit in near darkness as Anna hitches up the beasts of burden.</p><p>“You’re…” Dimitri says after a few minutes of silence, “you’re sure that you still want to be here?” </p><p>Felix kicks him in the shin by way of response. But then he speaks. It is hard to see his face in the dark, which means that it is impossible to tell what sort of expression he is speaking with. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Felix says slowly, carefully, “where I want to be right now.” </p><p>“Oh,” Dimitri replies. </p><p>“After the war, it made sense to leave, I thought,” Felix continues. “I wanted to make my own path, but… but now it seems more like I was running away.” </p><p>“Running away from what?” Dimitri asks, dreading that the answer would be him. That Felix had wanted to stay with his friends and his family, but Dimitri’s presence made that intolerable. </p><p>“From the war,” Felix admits and then sighs. “From myself during the war. From what I lost.” </p><p>“Felix…” Dimitri begins, but Felix cuts him off. </p><p>“Don’t,” he mutters grimly. “Don’t try to make this your fault. It’s pathetic.” </p><p>“No, I mean, I wanted to say that I understand,” Dimitri says. If anyone can understand the desire to run from a past full of loss and shame, it is Dimitri. </p><p>The cart begins to move, lurching and rumbling over the sand. Felix shifts somewhere in the dark. </p><p>“You should sleep,” he finally says. “Don’t know what we’ll find when we get back.” </p><p>“Apparently me,” Dimitri observes. </p><p>“Ha,” Felix laughs, short and humorless. “Just rest.” </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>“They’ve opened the gate,” Dedue whispers from his position on the rampart. “The impostor is heading out to greet the archbishop’s retinue.” </p><p>Sylvain whistles once. The rest of the battalions emerge from the moat, tossing aside hollow reeds they have used to avoid detection and beginning to scale the walls. </p><p>“Prioritize getting everyone out,” Sylvain reminds the troops. “We still have no idea how to deactivate those glyphs.” </p><p>Ingrid, meanwhile, keeps squinting down at the plaza below. She can just make out the back of the fake Dimitri’s head, golden hair matching the crown. She has an arrow nocked and ready, but at this distance, she can’t guarantee that she’ll hit him, let alone kill him. </p><p>“Remember, only if he seems poised to attack Byleth,” Dedue tells her, sounding as steady as if they weren’t staging a sort of rebellion. “Otherwise, it matters more to protect those who may try to defend him in ignorance. Once the palace is secure, then we can move on the mages.” </p><p>Ingrid nods silently. She sees the Knights of Seiros in glinting silver armor making their way up the steps and into the grand courtyard below. Distantly, she sees Byleth, a smudge of green crowned in white and gold with the regalia of the church. </p><p>For a moment, they are still. Byleth and the impostor appear to be exchanging words. Ingrid feels the arrow slipping against her sweaty fingers, but she keeps her grip. </p><p>There is a flash of something. Someone, she realizes. Someone has just come bursting through the gates before they have closed behind the church’s party and none of the guards seem to be stopping them. </p><p>Ingrid squints, trying to make out who is shouldering their way through the crowd, trying to get to Byleth. Someone tall, but wait, no… there are two of them. The first is tall, blonde, unmistakable. And the other is…</p><p>“Felix?” Ingrid says aloud in disbelief. </p><p>“What?” Sylvian calls from over her shoulder. </p><p>“And Dimitri,” Dedue confirms. </p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Sylvain says with even greater disbelief. “Together? Has the universe imploded yet?” </p><p>“This changes things. We must move faster to get everyone out,” Dedue says urgently, “I must go assist His Majesty.” </p><p>“I can’t believe it,” Sylvian says, still squinting down from the rampart, one hand shading his eyes. “Dimitri found Felix. Or the other way around. What is it with those two and their cosmic destiny?” </p><p>“Let’s just hope Felix didn’t kidnap him in the first place,” Ingrid sighs before turning to go assist with the evacuation of the palace. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>“Guards! Arrest the impostor!” the man who is wearing his face proclaims loudly. No one moves.</p><p>It is, admittedly, an awkward situation. Dimitri does not care much to see his own face like this. His nose seems bigger than he remembers it and there is something he doesn’t like about the way that his hair falls over his ears. </p><p>Byleth steps forward and casts a look up at the man who appeared to be the king. </p><p>“Dimitri,” Byleth says blandly, “what is your favorite tea?” </p><p>“Chamomile,” the imposter says confidently. </p><p>“And you?” Byleth asks, turning to look at Dimitri himself. </p><p>Dimitri opens his mouth, unsure how to answer the question without casting greater suspicion. </p><p>“Chamomile,” he says slowly, “although I am… I am not sure if favorite is the right word. The idea of enjoying something rather than simply using it as a tool to keep my darker urges contained is--” </p><p>“That one is Dimitri,” Byleth announces, pointing at him. Dimitri sighs with relief. Beside him, he hears Felix groan with exasperation. </p><p>“Well, shit,” the fake Dimitri says. The Knights of Seiros immediately level their weapons at him. </p><p>However, Dimitri notices that the legion of guards around the false king are not taking him into custody. In fact, many of them are conjuring runic circles of dark magic around their arms. And a few are… changing. Some of them fall to their knees, screaming as black tendrils sprout from beneath their armor, transforming them into massive, scaly monsters. </p><p>Byleth nods stoically at the situation. </p><p>“Nice to see you, Felix,” the archbishop observes neutrally before drawing the sword of the creator. Felix looks deeply unnerved, but he has no time for commentary before the battalions charge at one another. </p><p>As soon as Dimitri moves, he watches his clone warp away in a dark distortion of magic. He whirls around and catches a glimpse of the man sprinting for the portcullis gate that will lead him back down and into the city. Dimitri is not about to let that happen. </p><p>He catches up to him before he reaches the door and the man turns around, a disconcerting smile of his… very familiar face. </p><p>“Halt!” Dimitri calls out, pointing his lance, more of a borrowed javelin really, at the impostor. </p><p>“You halt,” the man snipes back nastily. </p><p>“I cannot allow a threat such as you to escape,” Dimitri says after a slight pause to reevaluate his expectations of how this confrontation would go. “Throw down your weapon and surrender.” </p><p>“Oh, you want me to throw my weapon, then?” the clone asks with an alarming smile. </p><p>Before Dimitri can respond, his arm has shot out and Dimitri has only a second to see that he has flung a pair of small daggers concealed within his sleeve. One of them passes over his shoulder, but the other hits. </p><p>Dimitri does not move in time and the point of the dagger sinks into his face. He drops to his knees, one hand raised to his eye, gripping the blade now embedded there. The cloth patch flutters to the stones below.</p><p>From behind him, he hears a scream. It is a terrifying sound, a mixture of fury and grief bursting forth from long dammed waters. Seconds later, Dimitri makes out a dark shape and Felix is there, crashing into his lookalike and sending them both sprawling onto the cobbles. His sword is pointed at the man’s throat, although Dimitri can see that the edge of the blade is trembling.  </p><p>“You--” Felix whispers, his voice cracked and full of hatred. </p><p>“Can’t do it?” the false Dimitri laughs. “Incredible. Just because I share his face, you would spare your king’s murderer? Besides, if you kill me, you'll never disarm the--” </p><p>“I haven’t been murdered!” Dimitri objects then, standing up.</p><p>The dagger is still sticking out of his face, but he reaches up and slowly grabs the hilt. </p><p>“I wear a false one on this side, idiot,” he says, slowly and carefully removing his prosthetic, the point of the blade still embedded in it. “Which you should know, because you are <em>wearing</em> my body!” </p><p>Felix looks up at him and Dimitri flushes because he is holding his own eye on the point of a dagger and that is somehow very embarrassing.</p><p>Or it would be embarrassing except that Felix is staring at him with actual real tears on his cheeks. Which means… something. Something he cannot think about currently. </p><p>“You are telling me,” the impostor says slowly, furiously, panting slightly where he lies, “that you wear a patch… over a glass eye? Who does that? What is <em>actually</em> wrong with you?” </p><p>“I don’t want to upset anyone,” Dimitri says indignantly, finally managing to extract his poor abused prosthetic from the tip of the dagger. </p><p>“You are the king of a literal country!” the impostor wails. “And you are wearing both a glass eye and an eyepatch because you are afraid of upsetting someone? Who? <em> Who </em>?”  </p><p>“People who are sensitive!” Dimitri shouts back. </p><p>The impostor attempts to roll out from under Felix, kicking him soundly in the gut. Before he can think, Dimitri has flung the dagger still in his hand and he watches it sink into the back of the impostor’s neck. He falls with a groan. </p><p>For a moment, Dimitri does not know what to think. Felix is still kneeling on the ground, breathing heavily and wiping his face. The body of the impostor begins to bleed a thick tarry sort of blood. </p><p>Dimitri kneels beside it and withdraws the dagger before flipping the corpse to check for a pulse. He finds none. His own eye stares lifeless up at the clear sky overhead. </p><p>“I should probably be more worried about how much this hasn’t disturbed me,” he observes to no one in particular.</p><p>Felix makes a small choked sound from behind him. Dimitri turns his back on his own body and goes to help Felix back to his feet. </p><p>“It’s alright,” Dimitri says, trying to smile as he holds up his own eye in one hand. “I’ll just have to order a replacement.” </p><p>“It isn’t <em>alright</em>,” Felix says and his voice is very thick. “You could have-- I thought you’d…” </p><p>He breaks off and takes a deep breath. Dimitri can hear that the sounds of the battle have died away behind them as Byleth finishes off the last demonic beast with a pitiful roar. </p><p>“No harm is done,” Dimitri reassures him, attempting to be gentle, but still utterly baffled by the sudden shift in Felix’s behavior. </p><p>“No,” Felix shakes his head, pulling back and starting to stumble towards the gates. “I should go. You’re back where you belong and I need to leave.”</p><p>Dimitri follows him a few steps, words dying in his mouth as he tries to explain, tries to call him back. </p><p>They are both disrupted when the palace unexpectedly blows up behind them. There is a ball of flame, a roar of heat, and the sound of glass shattering all across the courtyard. </p><p>Dimitri turns and sees a column of smoke rising from what used to be the palace of Fhirdiad. His jaw drops. </p><p>Then he sees them. Dedue and Sylvian are leading a caravan of confused looking servants and household staff down the steps towards the archbishop and Ingrid is swooping overhead, guiding a number of frightened looking clerks and ministers who seem rather unfamiliar with riding their own pegasus mounts. </p><p>“Damn it,” Felix curses from behind him. “Can’t you just… not need me for five minutes?” </p><p>“I…” Dimitri begins, unsure how to respond, unsure if Felix is angry, unsure if he is doing something cruel and keeping the man here against his will. </p><p>But when he turns and sees Felix’s face, he is no longer unsure. </p><p>“I don’t think I can,” Dimitri confesses. “I think that I might need you here every minute of every day… Felix.” </p><p>Felix rolls his eyes. Then he kisses him. </p><p>It is a strange first kiss. The heat of the fire is still burning beside them and his ears are ringing from the blast and it smells of smoke and Dimitri is still holding his right eye in one of his gloves. </p><p>And yes, he has lost a palace. But he still has Dedue. Still has Ingrid and Sylvain. Still has his people, safe and unharmed despite everything. </p><p>He even has Felix, strangely and irrationally back at his side. </p><p>And that? That feels like a victory. </p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>@cyranonic on twitter if you want to discuss which alternate lyric from Immigrant Song I should have used for the title.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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